


alrighty aphrodite

by Bradsucks



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Drowning, F/F, Love Confessions, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:34:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22671835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bradsucks/pseuds/Bradsucks
Summary: patricia once drowned. tora once smoked. they once kissed. it is all turning to dust and kalopsia.
Relationships: Patricia/Tori (Eddsworld), Patryck/Tord (Eddsworld)
Kudos: 3





	alrighty aphrodite

Tucking hands between warm thighs and green nylon mesh, Patricia tries to conceal her pulse that assail against the brown walls of her skin.

Insectal nails deliberately glide the black pen across her eyelid in oscillating strokes, she burns against cold porcelain. One blue eye sealed, she watches Tora - who is kneeling in front of her with her stark black hair and insidious ruby lips, seeking out tribute in blushes and eyeshadow for the green dress. Tora is so close that Patricia almost wants to vomit from those iron jerks in her stomach, twisting metal.

And then, she does.

Cheese and vodka rush out of her mouth, spewing into the pale toilet water. Shuddering walls spin around her - each panel made of guitar veins and drum heartbeats. She chokes up remains like rainbow confetti. Tora is lost to her, submerged in the midst of the party. The makeover with elated skin had been over an hour ago, distant now. That doesn’t mean it was any less prominent.

Patricia peels herself off the toilet like an aged bandaid, jostling bones and sticky flesh, and moves to the sink.

She stares at her swimming gray reflection, presses winter fingers on her blemishes, and thinks of how her pimples are only hibernating bees and cicadas that wait to be free. Sometimes, she would like to peel off her face. Buzzing temptations whisper at her, encourages the design of sinking ivory enamels in brown skin; zits sponge around clawing bones and red meat like mustard yellow mousse as blue wings withe out. She almost likes it, body as a hive. Almost.

Instead of scratching holes for insects, Patricia washes the last of algae vomit from her mouth. Olive green overdose swirls down and away. Fingers brushing out nausea, she is grateful to have retch her stomach lining into the toilet rather than redacted-band-member-name’s mouth.

Patricia cuts off the water.

Midnight snakes swing in uneasy pendulums off their ears. She flicks wet hair behind ebony fangs and smiles. Wax flesh trapped in white glass stretches along to the motion. “You are fine.”

Between fawn brown sticks, the golden hue of the knob shines. It feels like a brain tumor, a grotesque pulsing parasite, and reminds her just how haunted she really is. Her wrist twists and pushes.

Patricia exits the stomach only to be swallowed again. Between waves of shoulders, she is devoured in the earthy stench of marijuana and viscous sweat. Limbs pulse around her. Nails are thrown up like beetle black stars, clawing at invisible bliss. She tries to crave her own path through torridity and bouncing corpses. Make-believe immortals of the new decade scream along with stereos - _‘Bela Lugosi's dead’_ was howling from the speaker. Alien violet luster falls over their paper skin. Her hands continue to rake through filth, searching. Again, she is ten and breathing salt water as sand submerges her in clouds and yanks, hands of seaweed and stabbing shells. Her lungs are volcano coals against silk, melting. Violet goes red.

Electric white metacarpals find her wrist and pull.

Tora Bakke is a sudden remedy, medication. They are on the exterior of the mosh-pit, leaning on a stair banister. One ebony stiletto is propped up and her body is volatile, dressed in dying nebulas of a blackening silver suit. Anne hardly looks over at the girl she rescued, content with the ghastly crowd who wish to die young and pretty. Her steel eyes flicker once to her and those pensive eyelashes make Patricia’s heart coil like snakes. Patiently, Patricia waits for Tora to say she was worried, missing her.

“Let’s leave. This party is lame.”

Patricia does not remind Tora that it is her birthday party. Instead, she flashes her smile, a sycophantish wink of teeth and flesh, and pretends she did not spend time leaking pinkish-orange sap and boiling tears minutes ago.

They drive until the vibration of wind splits apart their skulls.

Patricia loves the moon - consistent and intimate as always. It is an old friend who slips through the enigmatic slits of a window, more faithful than most. Bare feet patting on the fence, she looks towards an ocean of lost answers alight by the moonlight and waits for the found ones, hypersensitive to the eyes staring at her collarbone.

Tora watches, perched on the vaporous roof of her car, as smoke filters over ruby lips. The skeleton of a cigarette box lays by her tire, stomped in. She hates how Patricia refuses to smoke, or rather is ‘unable to’ due to water lungs. From across the basement, those piqued pools have stared through smog curling over paper bags as melancholia fills the universe between them. Patricia feels awful in those moments because they are strangers, briefly, always? But now, the same eyes follow her now as she fails to balance.

“Tora, what are we?” Patricia opens up her clam shell and confesses. She has not spoken to Tora since the party, where she melted into dancing skeletons and liquid bone.

“What do you mean, ‘what are we?’”

It might have been better if the riptide finished her. Patricia would have been able to miss watching her decay.“I mean, what did we become? What happened to us?”

Specks of moon dance over acrylic paint as Tora pushes ebony hair over her shoulder. Her nails are haunting, resembling insectoid segments that sieve into soft hair. Clover smoke creases over her gothic, bloodless face. The indelible girl studies waves made of oil coral and lavender smudging on a flowing canvas, more beautiful than it all. “We grew up,” she murmurs.

Patricia laughs from a dry mouth of cotton and a body shell with lines full of uneffaced dirt, because it is so goddamn sad. No matter the clocks she has ruined to dust in that basement, truth burns in her marrowbone. She is eighteen. She is eighteen - it is her birthday - standing on a harbor fence as her makeup leaves feather-tip ink trails down her honey brown cheeks.

Tora is startled off the car roof by sobbing laughter. Her heels flicker with short, sporadic clicks. The clover cigarette smudges away on the pavement. She is six steps away, caught between their fabrucaturated universe, and lovely. Doe eyes full of uncertainty and upcoming melancholy stare.

“Do you - do you remember that one time in my basement? The promise? You - made me swear to you that. I never, I never would have left you. Why would you even think that!”

Clumsy hands shake. A hiccup of a cry foams out Tora’s mouth, tinted green with the scent of luck. “Don’t you see? You already have.”

Emotions overlap in the peach pit of Patricia like a washing machine cycle of bloody sand. Waves crash underneath her feet, the cacophony so incredibly morose. Now, picking apart an entire universe Tora and her have duly constructed, Patricia Rodegiuz has nowhere to go. The idea fills her chest with spectral water.

Hands with black daggers outstretched momentarily, but it was enough. Patricia slams down into silk like a meteor across their universe and cries. Dizzy adrenaline rushes through Tora like a tornado, ripping up nails and floorboards of her grounded personality. The tactile reality of skin frightens her.

Emotions are not commonly worn on Tora’s candle skin. Static has always been her friend, riding along the waves of popularity and trends. No matter how often cruel advice snakes around to encourage Tora to leave Patricia, refusal is immediate. But recently in the hours accelerating horridly to adulthood, she has been distant and cold. Fear raped her with volatile chains. She realizes how hypocritical it is to ask Patricia to never leave when she is the one pushing away.

Oh so slowly, Tora crosses her tapering ebony talons on the small of Patricia’s back with the awkward rigor of a coffin corpse.

Tora vividly remembers how it felt to touch skin that had no pulse. Her image is crystal clear, projecting between the seafoam shine of waves and canary yellow oil: two ten year old girls painted as a replica of Pieta, dressed in matching black swimsuits; horrified shrieks had left Tora as deprived of oxygen as Patricia, who laid dead and drowned in her arms. She blinks away treacherous ocean tears and squeezes Patricia harder, trying to forget.

“I- I’m so sorry that I left you! I didn’t... I shou-ld have never gone there. I’m sorry it- it changed us.” Her bloodshot eyes scream with the calamity of memories that are not easily forgotten, bleeding tears. All this time, Patricia has been breathing air but there is never a sign of life - heartbeat stilled forever. “Oh. Tora, I’m so sorry! If I just kept- I could have done it right, promise!”

Hooking claws under short brown hair and across a spindly neck, Tora kisses Patricia to impede hideous and unnecessary atoning. Textures and colors scare Tora, clouding her emotions, so she pinches her eyes shut. Patricia barely moves, an insect stuck in a web amidst cadaverous legs. Slowly, much slower than Tora, bitten nails and coarse lips react and twitch into talons and rubies. Her chest inflates with pure white light, a raw birth of euphoria. They ineptly engrave eight years of yearning and the love found in glance into that one kiss across lips like paint. Tora moves to speak her final input.

“It has never been your fault, you hear me? Never,” the words ebb off her soul.

Tora hugs Patricia tight, trembling, petrifying thoughts concerning over if she will sift into lapping water and oily moonlight.

“It has never been your fault.”


End file.
